


Coffee Shop Prompts

by ThisWasInevitable



Category: The Adventure Zone (Podcast)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Awkward Flirting, Baking, Crushes, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/F, Flirting, Fluff, Kissing, M/M, Pining, Prompt Fill, danbrey, indruck, rating is for language, sternclay, vampfire
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-07
Updated: 2019-08-27
Packaged: 2020-01-06 10:44:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 6,932
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18386846
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThisWasInevitable/pseuds/ThisWasInevitable
Summary: A collection of the coffee shop AU prompt fills from Tumblr. They take place in a variety of universes, including a semi-canon one.





	1. Kitchen Chaos (Sternclay)

**Prompt: I run a baking class one night a week after hours at my shop and you keep coming back despite being the worst baker ever.**

Barclay is a patient man. That’s half the reason he was chosen to run the once a week, after hours baking classes at the cafe. The other half, of course, is that he’s the best baker in the state. His scones sell out each day and his cupcakes can put a smile on the face of even the crankiest customer.

But his patience is running thin with one student, as much as he wishes it wasn’t.

Stern (that’s all the man ever goes by) has attended every class since Barclay began holding them. He’s an eager student, watches Barclay closely when he runs through steps and demonstrates techniques. And he is unequivocally, undeniably the worst bake in the class. And he’s rapidly approaching the worst baker Barlcay’s ever seen.

(That’s saying something, given that his friend Duck has taken two classes to learn how to make cupcakes for his fiancee and started a fire during both of them).

To make matters worse, he likes Stern. “Like-likes” him, as his co-worker Aubrey is so fond of putting it. The man is adorable, makes Barclay want to fawn over him or brush the flour from his cheeks after each kitchen mishap. The single pin on the mans jacket, the one he wears when he’s not in his work suit, confirms that he’d be open to being flirted with by a guy. But Barclay’s never been much for flirting; he’s shy, much shyer than his calm, confident demeanor in the kitchen suggests. Okay, so maybe he’s held Sterns’ hands a beat longer than he normally would when helping him knead properly or showing him how to frost. Stern strikes him as someone who doesn’t get a lot of patience or understanding in his daily life. If Barclay does nothing else, he can at least be that presence for him.

But what happened to today takes the cake. Or, more accurately, totals the cake.

How does someone even get a mixer working that fast?

Barclay had to call class early, on account of the batter Stern was making getting on both of them, every other student, the walls, ceiling, and all the other bowls of mix. He waves to the other attendees as they walk out into the cool night air, wiping batter from various body parts, promising them an extra half-hour the next time to make up for it. Walks into the kitchen, throws his head back with a groan when he sees just how bad a mess he has to clean up.

“I, I’m sorry.”

He nearly jumps out of skin, turns to see Stern face-down on the counter. He thought the man had left. Takes a deep breath, summons all his remaining patience.

“It’s alright. It’s not the worst mess I’ve had to clean up, although it’s making a decent effort.” Levity helps in such cases, he’s found, especially with Stern who generally laughs at his own mishaps with a good-natured weariness.

Not this time. This time a noise that is most definitely a sniffle meets Barclays’ ears.

He pulls up a stool, pats Stern on the back reassuringly.

“It’s not a big deal, really, it isn’t.”

“I can’t even make a cake right.” He sounds dejected. Barclay is torn between a kind lie and his own desire to be honest when Stern continues, “And please don’t spare my feelings by trying to say I’m not that bad. I am well aware that I am the worst baker in this class. I produce more catastrophes than edible items.”

“….Yeah, it’s hard for me to argue with that summary. But that’s okay; I don’t expect everyone who walks in here to be incredible. I just want folks to do their best and maybe learn something.”

“Some days it feels like catastrophe and failure are all I excel at. I can’t do anything correctly.”

This conversation is rapidly moving above Barclays pay-grade. But he has an idea.

“This might sound strange, but would it make you feel better to help me clean up? I could use the company, and cleaning helps me feel like I’m doing something right on days when it feels like I’m fucking everything up. Maybe it would work for you.”

Stern sits up, looks at him while trying to wipe batter from his face and surreptitiously wipe his eyes at the same time.

“Yes, actually. I find organizing and cleaning often cheers me up.”

“Man after my own heart.” Barclay smiles, heads to the cabinet where they keep the cleaning supplies.

“It’s nice to meet someone else with a fastidious streak. Usually people think I’m, well, prissy.”

Barclay hands him a rag and cleaning spray.

“Some folks don’t know a good thing when they see one.”

Stern blushes, turns away quickly. Barclay clears his throat.

“Um, you can start on the counter, I’ll take the walls. And the ceiling.”

Stern’s an efficient working companion, and Barclay finds they have more in common than he first thought; they’re both from the Pacific Northwest originally, both worked stints in bookstores when the were younger, and both have a fierce love of the X-Files. It’s that last topic they’re discussing as they tackle the dishes.

“….I got so scared by that episode that I slept with the blankets over my head for a full week.”

Stern laughs.

“I’m sorry, but I pictured you as you are now doing that, instead of a younger version and it’s hilarious.”

“Hey, maybe I still do. Big guys like me aren’t any safer from aliens than the rest of you are.” He nudges Stern playfully with his elbow, smiles when Stern returns the gesture.

“It’s funny, the show never really scared me. I wanted to be like Agent Mulder; for a long time I thought I was.” He sighs, wistful, and the conversation peters out. As he dries the last mixing bowl, Barclay finds himself with a question.

“Is the knowledge that you’re a bad baker why you come to my classes?” He dries his hands, gives the towel to Stern.

“Er, no, not exactly. I came because,” the other man shuts his eyes, speaks quickly, “I wanted to spend more time with you.”

The pink on his cheeks tells Barclay that “as friends” does not go on the end of that sentence. He’s looking down, twisting the towel in his hands.

“You, uh, you got some stray batter there.” Barclay reaches forward to brush his cheek right at the moment Stern touches his hand to the same spot. Which leaves his hand on top of Barclays as he holds his face.

Sterns other hand shoots up, urges Barclays head in the direction it’s already going. The kiss is gentle, yet it leaves them both gasping when they pull away.

“Y’know, I have all the seasons of the X-Files at my apartment. I’ll even let you hide under the covers if it gets too frightening” Stern grins up at Barclay with more confidence than he’s ever seen him possess and the look lights him up inside. Apparently a kiss was all it took to make the man into a bit of flirt.

“Let me close all the way up and then you’ve got yourself a date. But you have to promise me one thing.” He drapes his arms over Sterns shoulders.

“From now on let me do the baking for both of us, and I promise you can see me as many nights a week as you want. Deal?”

Stern kisses him again, puts a little more suggestion into than the last time before pulling back.

“Deal.”


	2. Fanboy (Sternclay)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: “Every day I write a quote on a chalkboard on the wall and apparently you’re the author I just quoted but you’ve never shown your face in public before so why are you telling me?”

It’s the deadest part of the day in the deadest season of the year, which is why Stern is looking down at his forensics reading when the bell dings.

He glances up to find what appears to be a lumberjack who’s just wandered into his store; tall, muscular, bearded, dressed in plaid. Not a usual sight for this part of town.

The man is worrying at his lip as he considers the menu, and Stern finds himself staring at his profile. A strong jaw, messy hair that he’d wager is pleasant to touch. He always did have a weak spot for outdoorsy types.

“Could I get a mocha, please?” The voice doesn’t match the exterior in the slightest, soft and nervous.

“Of course. That’ll be $4.50.”The man raises an eyebrow.“Wow, hadn’t realized coffee prices had gotten so steep.”

“Blame Starbucks.” Stern shrugs with a smile. The customer nods in a way that suggests he has no idea what Stern is talking about, sits down in the farthest seat from the windows. He keeps glancing over over as Stern makes his drink, a mixture of nerves and something else that Stern would like to think is interest.

“Your drink is ready.” He slides the big, blue mug across the pick-up station. The customer reaches for it, sees something on the wall and becomes distracted.

Which means his hands accidentally come to rest on top of Sterns’ around the cup. He doesn’t notice, but Sterns heart picks up at an alarming speed.

“Who wrote that quote?” He indicates the chalk-board, where in neat handwriting it reads, “there is nothing so enchanting as that which cannot be immediately explained.”

“B.Amnesty" Stern, hands still trapped, tilts his head towards where it says exactly that on the board.

“No, no I know that part. I mean who put it up there?”

“I did. Not many people know his work, which is a shame, so I try to put quotes from his books up there whenever I can. You know about him?” He can’t hide the excitement in his voice. Most people think his interest in those books is ridiculous.

“I am him.” The man says, and then immediately winces at the confession. Notices their hands touching and pulls his away with a blush.

Stern blinks at him. Then he laughs.“Hah, good one! The guy hasn’t been seen in over a decade, maybe even longer, and never shows his face in public.”

“Except when he’s just moved to a new area and his thirty year old coffee maker gave up the ghost on him at the worst possible time.” He looks serious.

“I’d like to believe you, but an author I admire always said to never accept a claim-”

“Without evidence.” The man finishes, sighs, reaches into his pocket for his wallet. Pulls out a worn, cream-colored business card.

“Barclay Amnesty, Author and Cryptozoologist.” Stern reads aloud.

Oh my god.

The greatest researcher of the paranormal and unexplained is standing in front of him.

The man is a legend. An enigma, a genius, and he’s hot?

“That last part’s a new one.” Barclay smiles at him and with terror he realizes he said all of that out loud.

“Hey, don’t look so scared, it’s nice to have a human interaction where I’m not the most awkward one.”

Is he…teasing him?

“Glad to be of service.”

Barclay shifts from foot to foot.

“Would you like to come chat. With me. For awhile?” Barclay gestures to his table and Stern has to stop himself from vaulting over the counter to join him.

They talk for four hours, the only two people in the shop the entire time. It turns out Barclay’s bought a house in the woods outside of town, and is trying to get more comfortable in public spaces again (“one too many bad incidents combined with getting so used to being on my own when I was researching and next thing I knew I hadn’t gone near another person in two years”). He only drinks the one mocha, switches to tea afterwards and Stern catches him staring at him through the steam when he drinks. He matches Stern question for question, seemingly as fascinated by his dreams of joining the FBI as Stern is with his adventures searching for lake monsters and the mothman. 

He’s never had a brain-crush morph into a crush-crush so quickly in all his life.

The clock chimes five.

“Um, I’m really, really enjoying talking with you, but we’re about to get the afterwork rush and-”A crowd of six people bustle through the door, followed by two of his co-workers and Stern hurries back to the register. When he gets a chance to look back at the table, Barclay is already gone.

He tries not to be too miserable for the rest of his shift; hell, he was lucky to even see the guy, let alone get to talk with him like that. So what if he never sees him again?(He’ll be sad, that’s what).

There’s a lull in orders, and as he calls out the last drink and slides it across the counter something catches his eye: hidden in the corner of the chalkboard are numbers. A phone number, hastily written but mercifully legible. He jots them down, erases them. Smiles, and keeps smiling all through his shift. And smiles even brighter when he gets home, calls the number, and hears his new, favorite voice on the other end of the line.


	3. Cats Pajamas (Indruck)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: I open a cat cafe with a separate room for the cats that are all available to adopt, and you keep coming in to sit with them even though you’re allergic.”

Duck doesn’t even look up from refilling the water dishes when the bell above the door of the “up for adoption” room rings. It’s 9 P.M, and there is only one person who turns up in this room at that time on Tuesdays and Fridays: Indrid Cold (according to the name on his credit card).

Those happen to be the nights Duck, as owner, takes the late shifts at the cat cafe.

This fact has not escaped his notice.

Nor has the number of times he’s caught Indrid staring at him (at least he’s pretty sure that’s what’s happening, the thick red glasses make it hard to tell). Duck doesn’t mind, he’s done his fair share of admiring the other man when he’s not busy tending to the cats or cleaning. Indrid is scraggly, white hair and white tank-top equally messy every time he comes in, but there’s a charm to him that Duck finds it harder and harder to resist. 

Indrids’ routine is the same each time; come in, order the sweetest drink on the menu, sit down in the room with the adoptable cats, sneeze, take out his sketchbook, sneeze again, and draw for hours (sneezing intermittently). Duck assumes he’s a student with a weird schedule, since the cafe is a popular study spot. It’s just usually not the spot of choice for people who are clearly allergic to cats.

“Evening, Duck.” Indrid smiles wide at him, settles in on one of the couches, sneezes just as Duck puts down a fresh box of tissues on the table beside him.

“Evenin', Indrid.” Duck grins, meets Indrids’ eyes a beat longer than normal and watches a blush move across his cheeks.

He leaves the other man to his drawings, tidies up some of the stray toys, plays with a new pair of young cats they got in a few days ago.

He spies trouble brewing a moment too late.

“Indrid, watch-”

One of the cats, who moments ago hopped onto the table beside the taller man, gleefully knocks his mug over before leaping into his lap. Papers and coffee go everywhere, Indrid yelping in surprise. Duck hurries over to help him.

“C’mon, Taco, that was a dick move.” He scolds, gathering papers from the floor. The cat flicks its tail at him before sauntering off.

“You named a, achoo,a cat Taco?” Indrid rubs fruitlessly at the giant, wet patch of coffee staining his shirt.

“It’s a good name! Oh, Jesus, it really went everywhere.” The couch is going to smell like coffee for weeks, and many of Indrids drawings are soaked.

“I’m so sorry, I, achoo, should have been paying more attention, but I got distracted drawing and-”

“It’s okay, hazard of puttin’ cats and cups of coffee in the same place. Here, come into the back with me and I’ll get you a clean shirt.” He heads into the back room, sifts through the boxes until he finds a “Kepler Cat Cafe” shirt that should fit Indrid.

“Here ya go-oh, ah.” He turns around to find Indrid shirtless, a very welcome sight indeed.

He holds out the t-shirt.

“How much do I owe you?” Indrid takes it, gratefully.

“On the house. Perk of bein’ the boss is that if I want to give a cute regular a freebie, I can.”

“Cute?” Indrid looks torn between being pleased and being stunned.

“Yeah, cute. But not ‘kitty-cat’ cute. More like, ‘like to take him to dinner cute.” Duck steps closer, keeps an eye on Indrid to make sure he’s not uncomfortable.

“Are you asking me out, Duck Newton?” A smile is spreading across that strange, irresistible face.

“That I am. Whadaya sa-UMPh.” Indrid kisses him, throwing his arms around his neck as he does. Duck wraps his arms around his waist, runs his fingers appreciatively across the cool skin, Indrid humming against his lips as he does. He guides him back, never breaking the kiss, until Indrid bumps into a table stacked with coffee tins. The taller man pulls away so he can kiss a trail down Ducks neck and Duck moans, lets his hands drift down Indrids’ back.

And then Indrid sneezes. Violently.

Duck breaks out giggling.

“Guess I got my answer to why you’re always hanging around here even though you’re allergic.”

Indrid looks bashful, pulls the clean shirt over his head.

“Yes, ah, I came the first few times because you were my muse. But eventually I came because, ah, achoo, I just wanted to see you and spend time with you. I hadn’t realized I was allergic until I came in here the first time, but then I saw you and well….” he gestures to the pile of semi-soggy drawings.

“Muse, huh?” Duck picks one up, and finds a sketch of himself seated on the floor playing with an older cat. It’s so flattering, and suddenly it’s his turn to blush.

“Drawing you inspires me, makes it easier for me to focus. That you’re also delightful to talk to and the best looking man in Kepler turned out to be the best of all possible discoveries.” He’s standing beside Duck now, and when they turn to face each other Duck winds his arms around his waist again.

“I get off in two hours. If you ain’t busy, there’s a good all-night diner a few blocks down.”

“That sounds lovely.”

“And,” Duck kisses his cheek, “if you ain’t too tired after that, could come back to my place and we could ‘watch a movie.’”

Indrid slides his hands into Ducks’ back pockets.

“Tempting, although if you have a cat-”

“I do, but she’s hairless.”

Indrid grins.

“Then it’s a date.”


	4. Caution: Hot Stuff (Danbrey)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt :I decided to use my personal (and massive) mug collection when I opened my shop and you start hanging around just to see which mug you’ll get

Amnesty Coffee has three major things going for it.

One: Really good vegan cookies.

Two: They still allow Dr. Harris Bonkers in as long as he’s in his travel bag (he used to be on a leash until the “latte incident”).

Three: Dani. Just. Dani.

Aubrey sighs, taps her finger on the table as she waits for her coffee. Spots blonde hair and freckles behind the bar and melts.

She’s so pretty, so pretty and nice.

Not to mention she has a killer mug collection. The mugs were actually why Aubrey first became a regular. There are like a billion of them, all quirky or goofy or pleasingly retro, and Aubrey kept coming back to see what she got next.

On the day she first met Dani, it was green camping mug that read, “Treehugger.” She’d commented on how much she likes the mugs, and Dani began bouncing on her toes.

“Thanks! They’re from my personal collection. I figured they were the logical choice to use when I opened the store.” Her smile is dazzling and shy all out once.

Aubrey was a goner.

She started coming once a week, then twice. Anytime Dani was there, she’d take a break from working to come sit and chat. Chatting about hobbies (magic for Aubrey, hiking for Dani) became chatting about life, about dreams, about things that felt strangely intimate to discuss in the warm, bustling setting of the cafe.

Aubrey’s started dressing a little flashier on days when she plans to stop by, started learning magic tricks that she can easily pull off while sitting at a coffee table just to see the look on Dani’s face when she does them. She daydreams about all the dates she and Dani could go on, all the things they could do (both with and without clothing).

She’s done everything.

Except ask Dani out.

She’d been holding off because she was afraid of mistaking friendship for romantic interest. And then the mugs started giving her a message a few weeks ago.

“You’re the cream in my coffee” proclaimed a sturdy, diner style one.

“Brontosaurus invented necking.” Said the one with the cartoon of two dinosaurs, necks intertwined to form a heart.

“You’re so foxy” Flirted the one with cheerful fox.

“Caution: Hot Stuff.” Teased the black one with red flames. That was two days ago, and in that moment Aubrey swore that if the next mug she got was equally encouraging, she’d ask Dani out.

“Here you go!” Dani chirps, places a cup down in front of Aubrey before disappearing back behind the counter (damn after-school rush).

Aubrey looks down.

It’s a plain, green mug. No writing, no picture. Nothing.

Fuck.

She drinks her spiced mocha, bounces her knees. How had she misread things so badly?

No, maybe Dani’s just busy and couldn’t choose a specific, special mug.

But she was busy the last two times.

She drains the cup, suddenly needing to get out of there in a hurry. The saucer catches her eye right before she puts the mug back down.

Written in chalk is a phone number. She looks more carefully at the cup. It’s one of those fancy ones, covered in chalkboard paint so that people can post photos of inspirational sayings scrawled on cups to their Instagram.

Digging through her bag, she pulls out a pen and scribbles the number on her hand. No, that’s too risky, what if she washes it before she remembers to put it in her phone?

She stands up, looks for Dani, finds her nowhere in the front of the restaurant. She grabs a piece of chalk from the community chalkboard (currently sporting a lot of X-Files drawings), before darting behind the counter and into the kitchen, mug in hand.

She bumps into a skinny back that she recognizes as Dani’s coworker, Indrid. She apologizes at the same time he yelps and shoves something into the supply closet next to them, slamming the door. The something curses in a way that sounds exactly like her next door neighbor, Duck.

“Oh, h-hello Aubrey. Are you, uh, looking for Dani?”

“Uh huh, is she-”

“Out back” Indrid points to a door and Aubrey only pauses to whisper “hi, Duck” into the closet and laugh when she hears a familiar, “fuck” before disappearing out it.

Dani is standing outside, checking her phone and biting her cheek. She looks up, sees Aubrey and immediately brightens.

“Hey!”

“Hi.” Aubrey holds the mug out. Dani takes it, eyebrows raised, turns it around to see where it reads, “dinner tonight?”

“I uh, didn’t want to keep you waiting so I-eeep.” Dani sets the mug on the ground as Aubrey speaks, then pulls her into a kiss. Aubrey’s pretty sure her feet aren’t touching the ground and she grips tight to the front of Dani’s apron.She tastes like mint and sunshine.

When they break apart, Dani bumps their noses together.

“Pick me up at 6?”

“Yes, oh my god this is so awesome, yes.”

Another kiss, Dani seemingly reluctant to let her go just yet.

“I’ll see you then, hot stuff.”


	5. Three's Company (Danbrey plus pigeon)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: “I’ve been sitting in the break room wondering how to ask you out on a date when you come in and announce you were just asked out by a customer”

Movie? No, too cliche.

Picnic? Maybe, but maybe it’s too cutesy.

Coffee? Would work great if they didn’t work at a coffee shop.

Aubrey groans, frustrated. Why is coming up with a date to take Dani on so difficult?

As if on cue, Dani bursts into the break room.

“You’ll never believe what just happened!”

“Duck _finally_ gave Indrid his phone number?”

“Nope, guess again.” Dani plunks down next to her on the ratty sofa.

“The two hundred year old espresso machine finally died?”

Dani shakes her head, smiling.

“Pigeon asked me out!”

Aubrey blinks, stunned.

“Wait, really?”

“Yep, asked if I wanted to go to the movies with her on Friday.”

“What did you say?” Aubrey’s knee begins bouncing.

“Yes, well tentatively yes. I wanted to ask you about it first, firebug.” Dani takes her hand, scooches closer

“I mean, uh, that’s, wait, hold on, does she know we’re together?”

Dani raises an eyebrow at her.

“She was the one who rounded the corner and saw us making out behind the building a month ago, remember?”

“Honestly I tried to block that whole incident from memory.” She shudders with residual embarrassment.

Dani considers her for a moment, then her eyes widen in delight.

“You think she’s cute too.”

Aubrey blushes, nods, buries her head on Dani’s shoulder. If looking at Dani reminds her of a meadow on a spring evening, looking at Pigeon makes her think of an autumn bonfire; each beautiful and wonderful in their own way.

“Aw, sweet pea, why didn’t you say something?”

“I saw her mostly staring at you, so figured that’s who she was interested in.”

“You realize she was staring at you a bunch too?”

“Oh.” Her blush is so hot it’s going to set off the fire alarm.

“Can’t say I blame her. She said she’dve asked both of us to the movie except she knows you work late on Fridays, so I’m going to go out on a limb and says she’s interested in a triad of sorts.” She nuzzles the top of Aubreys head, wraps her free arm around her.

“How about this: since you have to close Friday, she and I will go to the movie and then meet you at the place around the corner for ice cream afterwards?”

“Sounds awesome. Plus is gives me more time to figure out what kind of date to take you on for a six month anniversary.” Aubrey pecks her quickly on the cheek, giggles with excitement. Dani kisses her back, not bothering to be quick about it, pulls her into her lap.

“I love you so much, firebug.”

“I love you too, sunshine.”

“I love you both like daughters, but if I have to hear any more cutesy talk I’m gonna go all the way gray.” Mama calls from her office.

The two women cringe.

“Sorry, Mama.” They reply in unison. Then they smile at each other and burst into delighted, excited laughter.


	6. Comfort (Sternclay)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: You’re the very kind employee who brings me my favourite tea when you witness my public (and loud) breakup.
> 
> Context note: I went with Trans Stern on this one, and this is relevant to what the ex says when breaking up with him (no slurs or anything, just a shitty thing to say).

It’s a quiet evening in the lobby of the Amnesty Lodge.

Or, rather, it was.

“ARE YOU FUCKING SERIOUS?”

Dr Harris Bonkers bolts from his spot on Jake’s lap, Barclay splashes his tea down his front, and Ned lets out a string of surprised curses.

“Is that Stern yellin’?” Duck cranes his neck towards the hallway.

“It sounded like him, but I’ve never heard him be that loud.” Barclay stands, heads towards the kitchen for a towel. The yelling begins again, although the group only hears every few words.

“Not my…No, No, YOU shut…I don’t set..missions…that’s bullshit!”

“Whatever it is, he probably deserves it.” Aubrey sets her head back down in Dani’s lap.

“Aw, c’mon Aubrey, the guy ain’t that bad. He’s just tryin’ to do his job.”

“My love, his job would see him whisk me away to some shady government facility where I could never see you again.” Indrid looks pointedly at his boyfriend.

“…Fair.”

That’s the last of the conversation Barclay hears as he makes his way down the hall toward the kitchen. He still hears Stern yelling. Just as he reaches his destination the shouting stops, followed by the sound of something hitting a wall.

He starts the kettle, gets out his favorite blend (orange with hints of cardamon).

Poor Stern. Sure, the guy is literally hunting him, but Barclay isn’t sure the hunt originated with him. And when he’s not appearing at the worst possible times, Barclay actually enjoys his company. He’s starting to worry that the nerves that pop up whenever they cross paths are not solely from the fear of being caught, but from a crush as well.

He reaches into the cabinet, pulls out a bag of earl grey tea. Grabs cream from the fridge and another mug from the shelf.

When he gets to Sterns door, he can’t hear much of anything. He knocks.

Nothing

He knocks again.

A sniff and then a composed voice calls, “come in.”

Stern is sitting on the edge of the bed, doing his best to look like he didn’t just have a screaming fight with someone. All that FBI training must help you look stoic when you need to.

“Oh, hello Barclay.”

“Hey. I was making tea and thought I’d bring you a cup.”

“That’s very kind.” He takes the mug.

Barclay’s not sure if he should say anything else.

“I take it you heard some of my phone call.” Stern says blankly.

“Yeah. Hate to tell you, but so did everyone else in the lobby. And possibly the lodge.”

Stern groans.

“I’m sure they found it riveting and comical. The special agent making an ass of himself.”

“We were actually worried about you. That’s part of why I came to check on you.” He sits on the bed next to him.

“Really?” Stern clearly doesn’t believe him.

“Okay, I was worried. And so was Duck. And Dr Harris Bonkers.”

“Glad to know I’m so well-liked” he says bitterly.

“I like you.” Barclay winces at how unhelpful and juvenile that sounds. Stern stays silent for a moment.

“It was nothing to concern yourself with. Only a break-up.”

“I’m sorry.”

Stern stares at his tea.

“At least it was by phone and not an email? Or a telegram.” Barclay offers.

“It’s fine. It was for the best. We haven’t seen each other in months. In fact, this was the first time he’s called me in two weeks.”

Barclay tries not to get too excited by the presence of that pronoun and focuses on making sympathetic sounds.

“I mean, I know it’s difficult being with someone who travels so much, who gets sent here and there without much warning. And if it had only been that maybe, maybe…” He sips his tea. Barclay sees the mug shake.

“But not only am I absent, I am, apparently, not man enough for him.”

Barclays eyebrows shoot to the top of his forehead.

“He could have chosen any other word, any other way, could have said prissy, or weak, perfectionist, or wh-whatever else, but, but” He wipes his palm under his eye, bumping his glasses askew.

“He chose that one because he knows exactly how much and why it hurts.” Stern pats his chest, clearly looking for the hanky Barclay’s seen him carry.

Barclay happens to have one of his own, hands it to the agent.

“Y’know, there are at least six people in that lobby who would kick that guys’ ass for that kind of low blow. Just say the word and I can mail them off to wherever he is.”

“Please do not sic your band of weirdos on my ex.”

“Weirdo is a strong word coming from someone who works for the real life X-Files.”

Stern smiles behind the rim of his mug.

“Touche.”

A few strands of hair fall out of place and without thinking Barclay reaches forward and brushes them back.

Stern starts at the contact, recovers quickly.

“Apologies again for the disruption.”

“Mostly just startled us. Hey, heard far worse things working in a hotel.”

“Oh?” Stern is clearly hoping for a change of topic, and Barclay gives it to him with a soft smile.

“Well, there’s the usual folks getting a little loud during sex. That isn’t too bad, unless their dirty talk sucks in which case you want to die from second-hand embarrassment. There’s arguments, of course, and people playing loud music. One time there was a room where I kept hearing the Golden Girls theme song on repeat every time I was nearby.”

“Perhaps that was to cover up the sounds of sex.” Stern laughs, a skittish thing.

“Oh, god” Barclay hadn’t even thought of that, begins chuckling at the idea.

Stern goes to sip his tea, finds the cup empty. Gives a defeated sigh.

“Want another cup?”

“Only if it’s not too much trouble.”

“Stern, it’s tea, it’s the easiest thing I make.”

“Could I come with you?”

“To the kitchen? Yeah. Might have to start the dough for tomorrow soon but if you wanted to stay and chat-”

“I’d like that very much.”

Barclay stands and Stern mirrors him,

“Careful, you hang around too much I’ll put an apron on you and put you to work.”

“If it means seeing more of you, that’s not much of threat.”

Barclay looks down at the floor as he blushes, doesn’t see Stern doing the same as he opens the door. It’s only when the light and noise spill in from the hall that he meets Sterns eyes. They look, for the first time in days, bright and eager rather than tired as Stern arcs a hand to the doorway.

“Lead the way.”


	7. Black Coffee (Indruck)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I come to your coffee shop every day and I don't even like coffee"

“He’s here again.” Ned jerks his head towards the door of Mama’s Coffee Cabin, where a tall, gangly man with white hair has just stepped in out of the rain. 

“Think he’ll do the same thing?” Aubrey whispers from her position refilling the pastry case.

“Five bucks says he will.”

“Ned, what’ve I told you about makin bets at work?” Duck raises a disapproving eyebrow, turns to face the counter with a casual smile as the man steps up to it.

“Hey Indrid, want the usual?”

“Yes,” a flighty smile in Duck’s direction, “one black coffee please.”

Duck pours the house roast into a mug, hands it back to Indrid, who offers a soft, “thank you” and gives him a five dollar bill. He doesn't even bother telling Duck to keep the change anymore, as they both know that’s what he'll say if Duck tries to give it to him.

Just like Duck knows that Indrid will choose a table for one, set his mug down, and pull out a sketchpad. 

Just like he knows that Indrid will take one, pained sip of coffee before leaving the mug otherwise untouched for the rest of the time he’s here. 

After all, the routine has been the same for months. 

At first, they all assumed it was a fluke; maybe Indrid got distracted by his drawing and forgot his drink was even there. Maybe he didn’t like a particular blend. 

But after the first month of Indrid coming in several times a week, ordering black coffee, and then not drinking it, they began to speculate on other possibilities.

“Maybe it’s a secret signal, like ‘I’ll be the one with the sketchpad and the black coffee?’” Aubrey offers.

“Maybe he doesn’t know what else to order.” Barclay adds with a shrug.

“Maybe he’s just weird.” Ned suggests. 

And Duck? Duck has his own suspicions. Suspicions fleshed out by the times, late in the evenings, when he’s the only one working and Indrid comes in (or stays past when everyone else leaves). He cleans a little, preps for the morning, and Indrid will ask him a question. 

“How was your day?”

“Do you like working here?”

“Do you believe in fate?”

And Duck will answer, finish what he’s doing, pour himself a cup of black coffee and join Indrid at his table. At first the conversations were pedestrian, but Indrid eventually branches out into more complex, stranger topics. Somewhere along the line, their talks became the highlight of Duck's week.

Duck hasn’t told the others about it. Not for any reason he can put his finger on, more a gut feeling that those moments are secret, private things between the two of them in the warm light of the shop when half the buildings, and the world outside, are dark. 

He also hasn’t told Indrid that the longing looks in his direction aren’t going unnoticed. That he’d return them if he weren’t trying to manage the steady stream of customers and his own employees.

He doesn’t tell him how much he looks forward to seeing him. Not today, or two days later, or the next week.

But the week after that, Indrid comes in late at night, soaked from the storm slowly drowning the city. He orders black coffee then huddles on one of the chairs, staring at it blankly. Then the corners of his mouth turn down, and start quivering. 

“You, uh, doin okay there, Indrid?”

“Oh yes, quite fine.” He doesn’t even try to make the lie convincing. 

“You look like the coffee’s been callin you names.”

Indrid laughs weakly at the joke, “It’d be a fitting cap to my day. It hasn’t been catastrophic just...have you ever had a day where it’s been one unpleasant thing after another.”

“Yep.” Duck finishes putting away the last of the mugs from the washing machine. 

“The heat cut out at my apartment and the landlord says it can’t get fixed until Tuesday, then I got chewed out at work, then my bag was open without my noticing so all my sketches got wet, and now I’m trying to drink this vile liquid, well aware it’s not going to taste any better than it did the last twenty times.” His woes spill out onto the table, and even those his urge is to fix them all at once, Duck focuses on the one he can actually solve.

“You want somethin else to drink? Because I can make it for you no problem.”

“...Can I get an eggnog latte? With extra vanilla syrup?” He replies with the gravity of someone asking for a kidney donation instead of a seasonal beverage. 

“Sure thing.” Duck heads back behind the counter

“Wait, let me get some money-”

“No need. You paid me with a five for a cup of coffee that costs 89 cents. Think that’ll cover this too.” 

The drink takes no time at all and he brings it over in the brightest colored mug they have, a small plate in his other hand.

“Turns out the five covered one of the sugar cookies as well.” He slides it all over to Indrid, who looks at the menu, then back down at the table. 

“It says the latte is $3.50 and this cookie is $1.75. I still owe you.”

“You don’t owe me nothin, except the pleasure of doin somethin nice for a cute fella.”

The blush hits them simultaneously, as each registers what Duck just admitted. He scrambles for conversational cover.

“Indrid, if you hate black coffee so much, why’d you keep orderin it?”

“It’s extremely embarrassing.”

“Can’t be any worse than what I just said.”

Indrid flicks a crumb off the plate, “The first day I came in, I, I thought you were really handsome. And I wanted to impress you, or at least make a good impression, and I saw you had your own cup of black coffee so I ordered that so you’d...think..I..was...cool.” Indrid's words slow as he takes in the amused grin racing across Ducks face.

“That’s real, uh, real” Duck is trying valiantly not to crack up.

“It’s alright, you can laugh, I know it was silly.”

“Yeah but, ahee, not for the reasons you’re thinkin. I think you’re real cool, Indrid, have for months now. Didn’t have to keep orderin somethin you hate to impress meeehheeehe.” He gives in to the giggles, relief mingling with laughter when Indrid begins giggling as well, face buried in his hands.

His hands drop back to the table just as Ducks rise from where they’d been holding his sides, and it’s the most natural thing in the world to bring them together. 

“Goodness, I feel so silly.”

“Silly’s a step up from miserable, at least in my book.”

“That it is.” Indrid draws a thumb back and forth across Ducks knuckles, “I suppose I wasn’t terribly subtle in my interest in you.”

“Nope, though our general rule is we don’t flirt with customers on the clock, which is why I wasn’t beein unsubtle back.”

“So I suppose a kiss is out of the question?” Indrid’s tone has gone flirtatious, and Duck squeezes his hands.

“Yep, at least until I flip that closed sign.” Duck teases back, before dropping his voice lower and adding, “but after that, I'll kiss you as much as you want.”

Indrid’s eyes are saucer-wide behind his red glasses, and he’s about to speak when the bell above the door rings and a trio of customers hurry in. Duck hops up to take his place behind the counter, throwing one last wink Indrids' way. 

An increase in the downpour outside sends one final burst of customers into the shop, and by the time he closes up shop he's exhausted. 

But he still smiles energetically as he flips the sign to "closed" and turns to Indrid, who's draining the last of his latte from his cup.

"Now, where were we?"


End file.
